Fata Morgana
by azayana
Summary: This is the way the world falls, this is the way the world crumbles. How our choices and their consequences ultimately draw the lines between mirages and reality, and how sometimes, there is no line. [Zuko x Katara] [Aang x Toph] [Sokka x Yue] [AU]
1. i: rainstorm

_Story Summary_  
This is the way the world falls; this is the way the world crumbles. How our choices and their consequences ultimately draw the lines between mirages and reality, and how sometimes, there _is_ no line.

_Series Summary  
_In wake of trauma, we tend to forget things, ranging from small to large. But usually you don't lose all memory of a previous existence… unless, of course, your world has changed in the blink of an eye. And the more things change, the more they stay the same, up until that one day when you'd rather be anywhere but here.

_Pairings_  
Most likely Zuko/Katara and Aang/Toph, though the Zuko/Katara may get switched to Zuko/Mai. Though my foreshadowing at this point is all towards Zuko/Katara. Sokka/Yue is set in stone though, for reasons you will find out eventually…

_Notes_  
I know, I know, _another_ story. Another _AU_ story. But this has been eating at me for ages, and my other stories are being written (Full Circle: Daybreak should be up soon, and for Patterns of Rain and Smoke, I'm taking a little time to map out the plot and include some foreshadowing, like I have in Daybreak and this…).  
Names have been changed to make it more realistic (do _you_ know anyone called Zuko?). But the changes are beyond obvious.  
This is a reincarnation fic of a different sort - or so I hope. I revert back to my usual style of original fiction angst, which is quite different from my other stories (unless, of course, you count some of my one-shots and drabbles, but I'm not counting them). The first chapter is not so much in this style, but the rest… Hopefully I've weeded out the mistakes - if not, feel free to point them out. The Chinese text beneath the title says 'mirage' in Chinese. I'm fairly sure it's accurate (I didn't use an online dictionary, I used my textbooks and help from my family).

* * *

anywhere but here: part one  
**f a t a m o r g a n a  
**蜃景**  
**_chapter i: rainstorms _

* * *

**If I find within myself a desire no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.  
_- C.S. Lewis _**

* * *

**drip drip drip**  
silence save for your drip drip drip  
of rain and stormy nights  
wind against my window  
nothing but music to my ears  
lightning blue and blinding  
if you do not stop i may go  
insane with this knowledge  
of something that does not  
exist and never will  
for your drip drip drip brings  
back silence and nightmares  
that different drip drip drip  
not of rainwater and hazy mist  
but of crimson stained liquid  
on my floor

* * *

She wraps her jacket tighter around her shaking frame, and draws her knees closer. Thunder rips through the silence, deafening her and terrifying her. She has never liked thunder; she doesn't know why, but the mere thought of lightning horrifies her. It is one of the inexplicable mysteries that have always plagued her, but then again, she has many of those.

She gets used to it after a while.

Raindrops drip steadily from roof to ground. She squeezes her eyes shut, clenches her fists and hopes to dear God her brother is safe. It is paranoia; she knows that.

It's just that she just can't shake herself of the notion that lightning is bad _(dangerous, horrible; she has many words that spring to mind, and blood is always at the forefront; always)_. She pushes that idea out of her mind; locks in away in that corner where she locks away everything else painful and nightmarish. That corner is no longer a corner; it is a collection of nightmares and dreams and memories of things that have never happened (can people breathe fire and freeze water and move rocks and draw clouds); she knows they aren't real.

Sometimes, though, she gets the feeling that they are. And she's right. Just not in the way she thinks.

* * *

A loud ringing; some vague song that plays on the radio day and night - she jumps, pressing a hand to her chest, her breathing heavy and erratic. She reaches blindly for her phone; she doesn't want to move. She is comfortable and safe where she is.

"Scott?" she asks anxiously, clutching the phone and biting her tongue so hard she can almost taste copper in her mouth.

A dull static greets her. She muffles the choked sound that her throat makes, and then repeats her question.

"H-h-ey… 'Rina?" he replies, his voice distant and grainy, but still definitively Scott's voice.

Katarina sighs in relief, her grip on the phone loosening a little. "You're… you're okay, right?"

Her brother babbles on for a few minutes about how he's sorry that he left her alone in a storm, and Selene feels bad too, and please don't think too badly of him for it. She answers back hurriedly, telling him not to worry and she's been fine, she swears. They banter back and forth on the subject for a while, and with each passing second she twists a little more of the cord around her finger. In the background, she hears Selene talking.

"Put her on the phone."

Scott hesitates; Katarina can hear him asking Selene something or other.

"Hello?" comes a soft voice, and Katarina smiles.

Outside, the rain drips down in steady streams, and lightning flashes, casting an eerie glow to her face.

* * *

He glares at his tea, willing it to disappear or evaporate or _something_. He doesn't want tea. He doesn't need this now. The soft bubbling of something (Ah Yi is making soup, it seems) fills the kitchen, and the sound is starting to grate on his mind. His tea, however, remains on the table, and his Uncle is watching him carefully.

"I don't need your sympathy," he spits out through gritted teeth. "I've come this far. Two years, Uncle. I've gone two years without him. Father can go burn in hell for all I care."

His Uncle admonishes him gently. "Zach, I know you're bitter, but think of what your mother would say."

"Mother would support me."

"Ursula would not want her son to throw away his life like this."

Zach turns his glare away from the tea and to his uncle. "Mother was weak."

His Uncle looks at him - no staring, no glaring, not even a frown. His Uncle just _looks_. But it's that look that's loaded with disappointment and weariness and who knows what else. He has never been able to resist that look; it is an example of what his Uncle has gone through for him, and just how little his Uncle gets in return. Two years banished from the Main Mansion and forced to stay in the secondary one; the one where only those of distant relation stayed. And to anyone else it'd be pure luxury. To him, it is his penance; he sinned and he is paying for it (not the first time, he thinks, but then again, he has many strange memories of things that have played out differently).

He is estranged from his Father for good, his sister despises him and his mother is gone.

And all he has to show for it is his scar.

* * *

There are photos on his desk, photos tucked away in dark corners and stacked away in locked drawers. There are photos that he never _ever_ wants to see again; photos of a time when he was happy and they were happy and everything was perfectly normal and they were perfectly normal. There are photos of a time long gone by; a time where his mother was still there, where he didn't have an angry, raw scar covering his right eye.

He never wants to take those photos out again, and really, no one can blame him.

He turns over onto his side, trying to block out the sound of rain dripping and thunder crackling. He hates rain; it reminds him of a person he's never met, a girl he doesn't know. And if there is one thing Zach hates, it is not knowing the full story. His room is silent; always has been. He doesn't know anyone well enough to invite them around. He has his so-called friends, and the girls that fawn incessantly over him, but he doesn't know them at all.

He doesn't even know himself.

The silence reigns on, save for the soft splashes of the rain merging with puddles.

* * *

She stretches back on her bed, ignoring the fact that she might muss up her hundred-dollar hair (she didn't want it anyways; Mrs. Bei Fong had forced her to go to the hairdressers). Stacks of books lie on her bedside table, and she rubs her eyes with her free hand. At times, she gets the feeling that her sight is something new; something she didn't use to have.

It's a strange feeling, but she guesses it might be her overactive imagination. She can't feel vibrations; never has been able too. She can't twist spoons; she's not a magician. She can't make rocks fly around and shatter; she's not some character from a fairytale. She can't do any of these things, but in the dream world she created when she was five, she could do them all.

Her dream world is just that, though. A dream world. It isn't real, not at all (maybe once upon a time in the fairytales she indulged in when she was little, the ones that ended in happily ever after).

Sometimes she wishes it was.

Her wishes never come true, because if they do, her parents will see her for her. Not for the perfect little lady they wanted.

But they don't, and that is her biggest problem.

* * *

"Miss Tora, your tea."

She thanks the maid. The woman makes to enter her room, in order to set down the tray. In annoyance, she takes the tray, haughtily striding away.

"I'm not useless," she remarks in anger, and dismisses the servant.

The steady pounding of the rain against her roof starts again, and she sighs. Wisps of steam rise from the cup, and two (small, delicate) biscuits lie on the saucer, arranged artfully. She doesn't see the point in such frivolity, especially considering both biscuits are small enough to be devoured in one mouthful. They are another one of her mother's ridiculous spending habits; apparently they are the trend among wives of the rich and powerful.

Honestly, she thinks the whole idea of tiny biscuits is stupid, even more so when pretty patterns in chocolate have been elegantly baked into them. She figures that the idea was cooked up by some overpaid chef with too much time and too little common sense. It doesn't really matter to her that much anyway.

A book lies open on her bed; a story of a different place in a different time, one where people _can_ bend rocks and make things move of their own accord, the one where a bald boy with too-large ears and a not-broken spirit has to try to save the world, the one where that boy from across the road has a ponytail.

The one where she _exists_ and not only exists, but _lives _and _breathes_; where she can fight and stand her own.

The one where she has freedom.

The one that isn't really a book, but a collection of scribbled down dreams, and messily drawn sketches of people she barely knows and has never met.

And sometimes, if she tries hard enough, she can almost imagine that her spoon is just a little distorted.

For some reason, she has always associated wind with the boy in the book, the boy she's never met and doesn't actually exist - the boy from her dreams, the boy with the clouds and the large smile.

Tora Bei Fong doesn't like storms. The wind carries with it nostalgia that doesn't belong to her.

And by some twist of fate, her windows rattle as if on cue, shaken by the wind.

* * *

He stands there, silent and thoughtful. Two graves side by side, two names carved in stone. Two names of two people he never met. The fact that it is raining eludes him; he has no eyes for anything but the two headstones.

_Xia_, proclaims one marker. Etched into the stone are two dates, three words and a hundred memories. The other is just as simple, a carved _Hei_, two dates, and a lifetime of love.

He runs his fingers over the etched letters, imprinting them into his mind. If he closes his eyes and drags back faded memories of his lost childhood, he can almost see them. Xia, he thinks, would have been beautiful, with soft grey eyes that lit up whenever Hei walked into the room. Hei, he thinks, would have been kind; kind and thoughtful, with a warm voice.

Rain slides down the stone in rivulets and embeds itself within grooves, with each droplet reflecting scattered light and making the stony black surface shimmer. He draws his hand away slowly, eyes still taking in every detail.

He will not be back for a long time. And so Andrew closes his eyes and says a little prayer.

He hopes his parents will forgive him eventually.

* * *

The taxi ride home is long and bumpy, and while Gary as kind as is humanly possible, he cannot replace parents that Andrew will never have again. He rests his head on the sill, staring out the window at the speeding car lights and towering skyscrapers. Raindrops fleck the window, and it mists over where his breath touches it. He traces his finger through the mist, drawing patterns and stories in the mist.

A jet of fire, a spiral of water, entwined around one another. A rock falling apart, with a gust of wind swirling around it. Four Chinese characters he vaguely recalls from his lessons. A faint outline of a girl's face, staring back at him. She looks vaguely familiar; he supposes he may have met someone who looked like that before. It is not improbable.

He hovers his fingers over the picture in the mist, almost afraid to touch it. Some part of him has the strangest urge to whisper, _'I'm sorry,'_ but he has nothing to be sorry for. The girl is someone he doesn't know.

Gary watches the boy out of the corner of his eye, and sighs.

He knows more than he lets on, and the girl in the window is an all too familiar face.

Rain pounds away on the taxi roof, and Andrew tears his eyes away from the picture.

* * *

Slowly, amidst the deluge of rain, four souls carry out their lives, unaware of one another. And slowly, the world revolves on its axis, pivoting around as unbeknownst to them, four lives slowly shift around to become what will be their future.

And slowly, the paths of fate reshape themselves into new ones.

And as the world changes, the rain continues its steady drip-drip-drip.

* * *

A/N: Hei means Air in Cantonese. Xia means those clouds at sunset in Mandarin, or horizon. You can choose. They aren't his parents' real names, because I invented them. And then I was all '… oops, this is in modern-day,' but I suppose I'll leave them there for the effect. Besides, my parents have Chinese names, and I live in Australia. So it's quite realistic, I think.  
Poem in the beginning is mine. It's sucky and horrible and I _hate _it (because it's a terrible excuse for poetry) but it's mine.


	2. ii: layers

_Story Summary_  
This is the way the world falls; this is the way the world crumbles. How our choices and their consequences ultimately draw the lines between mirages and reality, and how sometimes, there _is_ no line.

_Series Summary  
_In wake of trauma, we tend to forget things, ranging from small to large. But usually you don't lose all memory of a previous existence… unless, of course, your world has changed in the blink of an eye. And the more things change, the more they stay the same, up until that one day when you'd rather be anywhere but here.

_Note_  
The American school system is a mystery to me. I live in Australia. Therefore, if you spot any mistakes, point them out, okay? Unless it's the fact that Katarina is technically not supposed to be in AP English. I made the curriculum up. The syllabus is invented, as are the essay questions. I'm not sure if Katarina can take AP English, but it's a plot device. Think of it as creative license. And if it annoys you, assume they aren't in America, but in a modern day Ba Sing Se instead.  
Hope that my character development is realistic! All feedback on it is appreciated.

_Story Recommendation_  
Just because I can, I'm recommending 'King of Naught' by LizzyRebel to everyone. And for a nice AU Zutara, read Chiaroscuro by helium lost. There, my shameless plugs done for the day.

* * *

anywhere but here: part one  
**f a t a m o r g a n a  
**蜃景**  
**_chapter ii: layers _

* * *

**Love one another. It's as simple and difficult as that.  
- _Michael Leunig_ **

* * *

**unfolding you**  
layers unfold in rustling  
papered butterflies drawn  
in feint-ruled margins  
layers of blue and white  
on your mask and on  
my book and this is how  
we meet and part and  
layers unfold in muted  
conversation of Shakespeare  
and as we talk and as  
we smile something  
within my heart falls to place  
layers unfold in slowly  
moving ways and for  
another time we meet  
meet and part ways  
once again and as we do  
layers unfold in harmony

* * *

She tucks her books neatly under her arm, glances around quickly. Soft waves of brown hair drift around her face, though the weight of her hair around her shoulders is still strange. Somehow, she keeps imagining it in a braid, though she has long since stopped braiding her hair. Another one of the strange things about her, she supposes.

As she turns the corner, her eyes are drawn to a sudden blur of movement. Consequently, she walks straight into someone.

"Sorry," she apologises, face flushing and hands fumbling to pick up her fallen possessions.

Handing a stack of books to the person who has had the misfortune to be the victim of her dazedness, she smiles politely. Their hands brush briefly, and she pulls away abruptly. Her hand feels like it has been burnt, and she doesn't think she likes the feeling.

"I…"

He looks at her, an unreadable expression flitting across his face. "Do I know you?" he frowns, staring at the awkward fifteen-year-old.

She shakes her head mutely, still cradling her hand. "I don't - I don't think so."

For some reason, her words feel wrong; there is a hollow tone to them. She feels like she is lying; this face is all-too familiar. The raw red scar around his right eye glares at her, and she doesn't like the feeling. The scar is far too similar to that of the boy in her dreams. This boy is far too similar to that boy in her dreams.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, and smiling vaguely again, she makes to leave.

He catches her arm as she pivots on her heel, and she recoils almost immediately.

"Wait."

_"I'll save you from the pirates."_

"What?" she says softly, her breathing quick and shallow.

"This is yours, I think."

_"__Perhaps in exchange I can restore something you've lost."_

She stifles a gasp at the resonating echo underneath his words, and accepts her book mutely. "Thank you."

He gives her a forced smile in reply. "I should get to class now."

"Maybe you should." Immediately, she winces at the unintended rudeness. But the (too-familiar) boy has already left, leaving behind nothing but a faint wisp of memory.

* * *

He draws his thumb slowly over the blade of the knife, relishing in the feel of the cold steel. This is the feeling he always gets before the chase; adrenaline, or something close to it. He thinks that the Master will be happy. The Master will be _delighted_. After all, the Master needs this over soon, before anymore bad news leaks out.

He spares no thought for his victims. He never does. They are merely puppets on string, he tells himself.

He stopped caring a long time ago (there are reasons, and she is only one of them).

He dispels this train of thought, because that train of thought leads to nowhere good. It never does. Turning his gaze back to the streets, a cold smile graces his lips.

_Target spotted._

And to make things more interesting, the girl crossing the road is the one he'd been told to watch out for. His smile widens.

_Targets in sight. _

_This is easier than I thought. _

_Orion will be pleased._

Zhao smirks, and surreptitiously follows the girl.

* * *

She hastens across the road, grocery bags swinging back and forth dangerously. She has to get home soon; Scott might panic otherwise. Though, if she recalls correctly, he's on a date with Selene again. Frankly, she doesn't mind that much. Selene is a perfect match for her brother. Katarina quickens her step. She doesn't particularly like crossing the road (she has a deathly paranoia towards cars, ever since she was eight).

Suddenly, she gives a short exclamation of pain. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, here, I'll - " she blathers, before looking up in shock. "I… You… I'm sorry, this is the second time, here…"

She holds out her hand to the fallen boy. He looks at her for a while, then takes her proffered hand; smiles in a false sort of way. She supposes it's not his fault, yet the obvious detachment from the smile disarms her. His hand is warm; he smells faintly of hickory smoke and some sort of spice she can't quite place. And somehow, with their hands touching, something _clicks_. She's not sure what, and she's not sure if she likes the feeling. Flushing, she pulls away, yet she can still feel a vague ghost of his hand around hers.

She can feel his eyes on her, and there is something oddly peaceful about it all, standing still with this stranger who's not quite a stranger on this crowded bustling road. Her heart seems to have stopped, and his face holds some faint flicker of recognition. Like this has happened before, only she knows far too well it couldn't have.

She manages a smile again, links her fingers together, expects him to maybe respond. He doesn't. Remains taciturn, and she supposes she can't blame him. Everything between them is awkward - she doesn't know why, but it just _is_. His eyes glance down on her hands (_her hands know his, is that strange for perfect strangers?)_.

"Do I know you?" he asks bluntly.

She bites her lip, not sure of how exactly to answer (_does she or doesn't she_). How do you say yes when you're not even sure you do? His gaze meets hers, and for one moment, she feels like time has fallen back and rewound to some other era. It's horribly clichéd and horribly romance-novel-esque, but it's not quite the same.

In the end, she shakes her head, says a soft 'I don't think so.' Frowning, his eyes remain on hers. Silence stretches to infinity between the two of them, regardless of the hum of traffic and click-clacking of feet on pavement.

He nods, replies that she just seems familiar. She says it may be that they have passed in the corridors from time to time.

"And you are…"

"Oh… I'm - I'm Katarina Lan," she replies, trying to curb the incessant fluttering of her heart (but she can't, and she doesn't know why, doesn't know how, doesn't know anything, least of all this bitter young man in front of her).

"Zach Yan," he replies.

Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly. She knows the name, has heard of the wealthy family and their estranged son and their vanished mother. It is not a name that gives her comfort (why, she doesn't know, but the chill she hears at that last name make her wonder). She looks closer at him, and supposes she should have known. Amber eyes, she notes (in her mind, they are far colder than they actually are, but in her mind, he's not this person at all). Scar around his eye - his distinguishing feature, she realises (and immediately feels stupid for not realising earlier).

"Done staring?" he asks frostily, a tinge of acridity in his voice.

She jumps, looks away from him, apologises in a quiet voice. She needs time to sort this out in her head. "I shouldn't have."

"Everyone says that," he answers. "No one actually means it."

Taken aback, she bites her lip. There is something under his words that seems out-of-place. She thinks that maybe, just maybe, his bitterness is a façade.

After all, she can sympathise.

* * *

She walks down the hallway slowly, weaving in amongst gossip and giggles. _Left turn here_, she reminds herself. Stopping at a locker marked with a five-two-eight, she pulls out a glossy new textbook. She whirls around suddenly at the sound of her name (her senses are strangely attuned, for some reason - there's no real reason for it, but they are).

"Hey Rina."

"Hey," the older girl replies, her eyes holding a strangely vacant expression.

She frowns. It is not like Katarina to look dreamy and off on the clouds.

"Are you," she starts.

"Okay? I'm fine. Fine," the girl finishes.

_You don't sound too sure_, she thinks to herself, but the fifteen-year-old has already started to speak again.

"I should go now. I can't be late for the first AP English lesson of the year."

"You do Advanced Placement English?" Tora asks incredulously.

Katarina nods, bids her friend goodbye. She watches as the girl turns away and walks off. Something seems odd; out of place - Tora's senses are attuned enough to tell her that something is wrong (that odd buzzing in her ear especially).

She shakes her head. She has to get to class; she doesn't have the time to dwell on vague fairytales of what should have been her life.

She hasn't had time for a long while.

She thinks it might be a good thing.

* * *

Zach frowns at the class in front of him. He knows no one in the room well; he supposes it is his isolation from the rest of the school; after all, he barely knows anyone well (despite his giggling fanclub, but he ignores them like he always has). Out of the corner of his eye, he sees one of the mindless idiots that follows him around waving at him. He makes a beeline for the other side of the room. He is more than thankful that this particular class has less than the usual number of giggling brain-dead morons.

Casting his eyes around, he sighs. The only vacant seat on the other side of the room is next to a girl. A girl with strands of long brown hair with a book open on her desk and taking down notes at an alarming rate. He assures himself that this means that she perhaps has a brain. He pulls out his chair, takes out a pen. The girl looks familiar, but he doesn't place her until she looks up.

His mouth almost drops open. Her eyes are an uncanny shade of blue (they are her distinguishing feature), and her hair is a mismatched brown. Some unbidden thought of the sea and caves and betrayal and fire burning bright floats to the top of his consciousness. And for a reason unbeknownst to him, he feels guilty. A common loss and an offer not taken up on; a lock of shock that imprints itself into his memory.

He frowns.

"Zach?" she questions tentatively.

She is heartache and forbidden and something he lost and then got back, before he lost her again. She is a misplaced trace of his fictitious past. She is not that same girl, he tells himself.

He nods politely, with a short acknowledgement that he knows her. Something he can't place flitters between them - not romance, not love, but something deeper, more meaningful - and she breaks eye contact.

It seems odd, their chance meetings and their sudden realisation that the other exists. He passes it off as coincidence.

There is no such thing as coincidence, or so his mother used to say.

His mother was probably right.

* * *

Her heart flutters again; it is a butterfly, and it will not stop. Sitting here is almost painful in its awkward quiescence. She feels almost dirty, like the fact that her heartbeat quickens almost indiscernibly around this person is wrong and politically incorrect - she could go as far as to say taboo, but that feels wrong as well. But even so, she still feels the innate attraction; vestiges of some dreamlike world in which there was a boy like this, only different.

_Different in his rudeness, different in his coldness, different in his haughtiness._ The dream boy was ruder, colder and haughtier, all at once. This boy is kinder, politer, more grounded, like the dream boy in the cave. _Different in his hair._ The dream boy had a topknot almost, with a head shaved bold, and short spiky hair that is all too reminiscent of days long gone that were always non-existent. This boy has a ponytail, a ponytail like that portrait of the dream boy. _Different in his smile._ The dream boy never ever smiled. This boy smiles, no matter how coerced the smiles seem.

This boy is different, after all.

And no matter how hard she tries (and she tries as hard as humanly possible), she can't even think of why the similarities. Their names were different, though she can't recall (for the life of her) the dream boy's name.

She supposes it is inconsequential, as she has not had her dreams for a while (since the Tuesday she met this boy).

She wonders if she's happy they've stopped. She says she is.

A little part of her begs to disagree.

That little part had been consumed by the world with the boy who wielded fire and the boy with the two swords and the boy with the blue tattoo and the boy with the long hair. The world where Tora wasn't quite Tora (the one where she was blind and made rocks move and fly). The world where her brother wasn't quite her brother (the one where he had a boomerang and was a warrior).

She supposes she's looking for connections to something that will never be (has never been) real. Just a little deranged.

It runs in her family.

* * *

Ill at ease, Andrew has a strong urge to run into a corner of the room and hide there. He is being stared at; he can hear the whispers, muted mutterings of a too familiar name.

_He's her son, isn't he? **Who?** Xia Yun. Kiera Yun. **He's Kiera Yun's son? Oh, the poor boy.** I know. Famous mother, and then she dies in a fatal accident. **And his dad, too. Wasn't that story so sad?** Totally. I loved that song he wrote for her. **'Even After Eternity'? I loved that song too.** And he died of grief. How romantic._

He stops listening at that point. He doesn't particularly see the romance in his father's death. His parents are _gone_, and he doesn't need the reminder that they're not here. He thinks he knows it well enough without the extra prompting. Almost all the eyes in the class fixate themselves on his; analyse his every move. He knew that moving was a bad idea, but he supposes that he owes it to Gary, if only to stop making him feel like he is leeching off Andrew (because when it comes down to it, Gary is the sole reason he has not gone crazy).

The teacher gives him a saccharine smile, introduces him to the class in a sickeningly sweet voice. Asks if they know this person already, and gets a murmur of assent in reply. She looks pleased, beckons towards Andrew. Gesturing him to an empty seat, asks if he doesn't mind sitting there. A shake of his head only makes her pleased look even more noticeable.

Making his way to the table, he catches sight of someone sitting in second row. Catches sight of someone who looks all too like the girl in the taxi window.

He shrugs it off as just a mere coincidence.

But really, is there such thing as coincidence? Because it confuses him, because he _knows_ this girl.

* * *

_Many scholars believe Shakespeare's later tragedies to be aesthetically superior to his earlier tragedies. Select two tragedies of his from two different periods of writing and compare them to either justify or refute this claim._

Her eyes skim over the paper; a smile graces her lips. She writes down a list of possible plays, discards all but two. Romeo and Juliet; she is more than familiar with that one, and Othello; she likes the ethical debate behind that one. A glance over at Zach finds him in deep thought.

"Which two are you doing?" she asks.

He frowns. "Not sure. Macbeth, I think. Maybe Julius Caesar."

She nods, dredges up what she remembers of the two. Julius Caesar was quite possibly one of her least favourite plays - it was tedious, and she dislikes tedious. Macbeth, on the other hand, was among her favourites. It's insignificant and useless what she thinks anyways, because it doesn't really matter to this boy (_Zach_, she reminds herself). They are perfect strangers and she means nothing to him and he nothing to her, no matter the butterflies that flitter around her chest when she looks at him, and no matter the connections between then and now, because then _wasn't_ real.

"You?"

"What? Oh, I'm doing Othello as compared to Romeo and Juliet."

Her hand flies across her page, notes in sharp blue ink curling on top of pale blue feint-ruled lines.

_Analyse characteristics of heroines; the ability to make us sympathise with them. Romeo and Juliet romance too rushed? Desdemona - tragic heroine - downfall and catalyst. Juliet/Romeo romance - soliloquies used to prove to us their feasibility as couple. In Othello, soliloquies used to make us sympathise with Othello - insecurities and so on. _

Zach reads over her shoulder at her hastily written outline. "You can understand that?"

"Well, they're my notes, so yes, I understand them."

He just gives her a look, and turns away.

Katarina resists the strong urge to stick out her tongue, turns back to her book. Her mother-hen instinct (the one that says to be nice to Zach and to try and be on better terms with him) is starting to dwindle, and she has work to do.

* * *

Andrew navigates his way across the crowded lunch hall, ignores the waves and giggles. He wants to sit somewhere with a normal person - he has gone through enough in the last few periods. Two hands clutch onto a bright orange tray stacked with food and dishes, some of which he has to hazard a guess as to their identity _(is that meat?)_.

"_Andrew_?" an incredulous voice asks.

He turns around, looks up into the face of a girl with moon-dark skin and a night-pale smile. "Katarina?"

She beams, happy that he remembers her, though he does not know how he could ever forget her. Katarina is the one girl he _cannot_ forget, but he doesn't quite know why (he doesn't like her, at least doesn't think he does, wasn't old enough at age six to understand, but maybe in that once-upon-a-time that Gary never speaks about).

"You should sit down," she comments.

He replies that he really has nowhere to sit.

"Well, you could sit with us," she offers, grinning.

"I shouldn't…"

"Don't worry," she exclaims, tugging at his arm.

Acquiescing, he follows the enthusiastic girl.

Little does he know that his one decision will change his life.

* * *

Katarina's friend is annoying and talkative and obviously has a crush on the blue-eyed girl. It annoys Tora to no end. Drumming her fingers on the table, she rolls her eyes as he babbles away. She can tell that the others at the table think him oh-so-cute, and oh-my-God-he's-Kiera-Yun's-son, but she already knows from class, and frankly she couldn't really care less. Kiera Yun is Kiera Yun, and she leaves it at that. It doesn't really matter that her son is 'like-the-cutest-thing-ever', because cute doesn't always mean good things. And she respects Kiera Yun, she really does, but her son is an entirely different matter.

A sudden _'ring'_ interrupts her semi-coherent rant to herself. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she scowls at the boy _(Andrew)_ as he blushes when Katarina addresses him.

"Hey, Tora, wait!" he calls after her.

She chooses not to reply, dubbing him Twinkletoes in her mind for the way he seems to hover above the ground.

"We have class together, right?"

She gives him a curt nod.

"Can you show me to the classroom, then?" he asks, undeterred.

"Well, what do you _think_, Twinkletoes?"

He stops. "Repeat that… the last word."

"Twinkletoes. Do you have a problem with me calling you that?"

"No, just… I…" he trails off. He doesn't want to complete the sentence; he isn't even sure why the name registers as familiar.

She shakes her head in annoyance and quickens her steps in an attempt to rid of him. It doesn't work. "Why are you following me again?"

"Because I'm new and don't know where to go," he shoots back.

Rolling her eyes at him, she keeps walking. And without realising it, their steps fall into time, a steady rhythm of shoes clicking on tiled floors.

* * *

Katarina ignores the groans of the class and focuses her attention on the new assignment (second in as many days) in front of her. She doesn't mind so much the giant workload that AP English has dumped on her; she likes composition well enough. Jotting down a few extra titles, she reflects on the tension so clearly evident between Andrew and Tora. She supposes she is over-analysing it, but something about their arguments ring true in her mind. It is unsettling and frightening all at once, and she's not quite sure _what_ to think.

The boy next to her is silent and scowling and her nerves are starting to fray, but really, she's not sure if he even understands the definition of 'happy'. She tries to ignore the vibes emanating off him and focus on her page again, but the aura of discontent is slightly unnerving.

"Is there a word limit?" They are the first words he has spoken all lesson, and she jumps in surprise.

"It has to constitute a short story and has to be a thousand words or more, but that's all."

He mutters a quick thank you and returns to his icy demeanour.

And the chief reason why she hates it isn't because he's ignoring her, but because it resonates too soundly of a past she never had, and it scares her.

* * *

A piece of paper flutters out of his pocket as he leaves, and she makes to stop him, but it is too late. She stoops, picks up the fragile slip.

Unfolding it, another fragment of torn paper falls out. She reaches for it to catch it, holds the pieces side by side.

And almost immediately, she claps a hand over her mouth.

"Oh my God."

* * *

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as the girl tightens her grip on the papers.

_My job just got a whole lot easier. Let her get closer to him, then yank it out from under them. _

_Oh, I don't think I'll have any trouble with that now. _

Zhao takes out his pager and keys in a short abrupt message.

Orion owes him, and he knows it.

And Zhao fully intends to use that to his advantage. After all, it isn't every day you have a senator owing you a large sum of money and one rather _large_ favour.

_Rest in peace, Lian. I'll get him back for you._

_Even if you'll never be able to see it._

* * *

**A/N: **My longest chapter to date... 8 pages on Word in size 8.5 Verdana.  
Shakespeare is important to this play. And that's all I'm saying. Katarina is an English nerd.  
Romance too rushed? I hope it's not, because if you think about it, they do kind of know each other, and it's not romance. Just familiarity. And maybe more, but I'm not saying anything. Choose to ignore it if you want… That's just my reason.  
**Zhao's name is still Zhao for a reason:** Zhao is his last name in this story. Zach and Katarina's last names are my inventions.  
Oh, and one last thing, I've drawn on Chinese culture and numerology for this chapter. In little off-hand ways.


End file.
